Forgotten Realms - Realms of Magic Part 3

The giant's hand closed on the cat, but the agile panther twisted about suddenly, biting hard, taking off three fingers, and the behemoth fostered no further thoughts of squeezing its foe. It merely shoved hard with its other hand, pushing the cat from its chest. The giant rolled about, grabbing for its club, knowing it must get to its feet before the cat came back in.

No chance of that; the panther hit the ground solidly, all four claws digging a firm hold, every muscle snapping taut to steal, to reverse the cat's momentum. Turf went flying as the panther pivoted and leapt, hitting the rising giant on the head, latching on, biting, and raking.

The behemoth wailed in agony and dropped its club again. It flailed at the cat with both arms and scored several heavy blows. But the panther would not let go, great fangs tearing deep holes in the behemoth's flesh, mighty claws erasing the features from the giant's face.

Josidiah came up square against his one opponent, the giant bleeding from several wounds, but far from finished.

Its companion moved in beside it, shoulder to shoulder.

Then another form crested the hill, a hunched, human form, and the second giant turned to meet this newest enemy.

"It took you long enough to get here," the elf remarked sarcastically.

"Ores in the woods," Anders explained. "Pesky little rats."

The human had no apparent defenses in place, and so the giant waded right in, taking up its club in both hands.Anders paid it little heed, beginning a chant for another spell.

The club swished across, and Josidiah nearly cried out, thinking Anders was about to be batted a mile from the hilltop.

The giant might as well have hit the side of a stone mountain. The club slammed hard against Anders's shoulder and simply bounced off. Anders didn't even blink, never stopped his chanting.

"Oh, I do love that spell," the old mage remarked between syllables of his present casting.

"Stoneskin," Josidiah said dryly. "Do teach it to me."

"And this one, too," Anders added, laughing. He finished his present casting, throwing his arms down toward the ground at the giant's feet. Immediately, earth began flying wildly, as though a dozen giants with huge spades were digging furiously at the spot. When it ended, the giant was standing in a hole, its eyes even with those of the wizard.

"That's more fair," Anders remarked.

The giant howled and moved to raise its club, but found the hole too constricting for it to properly get the weapon up high. The wizard began yet another chant, holding his hand out toward the monster, pointing one finger right between the giant's eyes and bending the digit to show the giant a bejeweled ring.

With its weapon tangled in the tight quarters of the hole, the monster improvised, snapping its head forward and biting hard the wizard's extended hand.

Again, Anders hardly finished, and the giant groaned .oudly, one tooth shattered by the impact.

Anders thrust his hand forward, putting the ring barely an inch from the monster's open mouth and loosing the magic of his ring. b.a.l.l.s of lightning popped forth, into the Dpen mouth, lighting up the behemoth's head.

"Fa da!" said the old mage, bending his legs, more of a rartsy than a bow, and throwing his arms out wide, palms ap. as the giant slumped down into the hole.

"And the grave is already dug," Anders boasted.

The second giant had seen enough, and started for the side of the hill, but Josidiah would not let it get away so *easily. The bladesinger sprinted right behind, sheathing : ne sword. He let the giant get far enough down the hillside so that when he leapt for it, he came in even with the monster's bulbous nose. He held fast and brought his swordarm in hard around the other side, slashing deep _ato the monster's throat. The giant tried to reach up and grab the elf, but suddenly it was gasping, stumbling, skid-img to its knees, and sliding down the hill.

Josidiah's sword arm pumped furiously, widening the wound, tearing at the brute's arteries and windpipe. He pushed away as the giant tumbled facedown, coming to a standing position atop the monster's back. It was still alive, still gasping, but the wound was mortal, Josidiah knew, and so he turned back for the hilltop.

Anders's self-congratulatory smile was short-lived, dissipating as soon as the mage looked to the battered panther. The cat had done her work well-the giant lay dead on the ground-but she had been battered in the process and lay awkwardly, breath coming in forced gasps, backbone obviously shattered.

Anders ran to the panther's side; Josidiah joined him there a moment later.

"Do something!" the elf pleaded.

"There is nothing I can do," Anders protested.

"Send the cat back into the figurine," Josidiah said. "She should be whole again when she returns."

Anders turned on the elf, grabbed him by the front of his tunic. "I have not completed the spell," he cried, and only then did it hit the mage. What had brought the panther out here? Why would a panther, a wild panther, run to the aid of an elf?

"I never got close to finishing," the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. "I just let her go."

Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

"We must get her back to my tower," Anders said.

Josidiah's expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat's tail had disappeared into the cloth!

"Lift her as I pa.s.s this over her," Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

"Extradimensional hole," the mage explained, slipping it forward to engulf the cat's head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. "She is quite fine," he said. "Well, except for the giant's wounds."

"Wondrous toys, wizard," Josidiah congratulated.

"Spoils of adventuring," Anders replied with a wink. 'You should get out more."

The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

"Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment," Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah". "Be gone," he said, "for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully."

Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this mostwondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders's magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

Josidiah looked once more into the cat's eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders's preparation.

Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. "You will take the figurine,"

he said to Josidiah.

"I cannot," the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

Anders did not argue-there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat's head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther's eyes.

"I name you Whiskers," he began, putting his dagger against the animal's throat.

"No!" Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man's hand and pulling the dagger away. "Not Whiskers, never that!"

Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. "Shadow," he declared.

"No, not shadow," said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. "The high elvish word for shadow." He looked right into the cat's eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther's name all along.

"Guenhwyvar."

As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders's lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything-panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

"What did you do?" Josidiah asked the mage.

"I?" balked Anders. "What did you do?"

Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.

"Guenhwyvar," the elf called nervously.

A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

"How did you do this?" the elf asked.

"I know not," Anders replied. "And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!" The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. "Send her away to heal," he bade.

Josidiah looked to the cat. "Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise."

The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

"That is the joy of magic," Anders said. "The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, per-naps the magic of the hole-ah, yes, my dear, lost hole!- perhaps the combination of all these things.

"The joy of the mysteries," he finished. "Very well, then, give it to me." And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.

"Never," the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.

"Indeed," said the mage, hardly surprised. "But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort."

"Gladly," said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.

SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS.

Jeff Grubb.

On reflection, Jehan Wands realized why most adventures begin in taverns. It takes a combination of noise, bustle, the late hour, wrong-headed opinions, and ale, all in specific amounts, to convince otherwise rational people to do stupid things like go on quests and slay dragons. And only a tavern could bring all this together in one spot.

The tavern in question was the Grinning Lion, located in the northern, well-monied reaches of Waterdeep, gem of the north, City of Splendors, and great jewel of the Shining Sea. The Lion was no wharf-side dock or adventurer's dive in the lower quarters of the city, but a clean, softly lit watering hole frequented by locals and the most recentgeneration of the city's n.o.ble families. Here, individuals who would flee in terror from the common room of the b.l.o.o.d.y Fist or Selune's Smile farther down the city could quaff a few with others of similar social station and disposition.

There were no dusty Dalesmen here, no Red Wizards in mufti, and no axe-wielding dwarves. Most of the crowd were local, young, and in varying degrees of inebriation, their numbers mixed with a smattering of the wealthy merchants who catered to the wealthier families. A bois- terous game of darts dominated one corner, a high-stakes Talis game another, and a third had been commandeered by a wag of middling years telling "Volo stories" to a crowd of younger sports.

The fourth corner held a quiet table of three young apprentice wizards. These were new mages, just trained in their first cantrips, whose lives were still filled with the inglorious grunt work of wizards' a.s.sistants-cleaning kettles, running errands, fetching spell components, sweeping the summoning room floor, and other odious tasks their mentors a.s.signed. Like employees of every stripe, regardless of profession, they were taking this opportunity of temporary freedom to complain about the masters they had just left behind.

"Familiars get treated better than we do," said Jehan Wands. He was the tallest of the three, a youth with dark hair gathered in a ponytail behind a golden earring (the latter worn only when he was away from his magical master-his granduncle, Maskar Wands).

His friend Anton, a russet-headed youth, grunted an agreement. "I've seen spell components that were better handled than apprentice wizards. Don't these old husks remember when they were young?"

"They probably do," said Gerald, a gangly blond boy with short hair and a scowling demeanor, "and they want to treat their apprentices just as badly as they themselves were treated." Gerald was supposedly Anton's friend, but Jehan had drunk with him only a handful of times in the past few months.

"And I have it doubly bad," said Jehan, "for I'm working for the family patriarch himself. He's so old we call him Maskar the Mummy. Practically embalmed, and as stiff-necked as they come. If I make the slightest mistake, he pays a 'social call' on my father, and I get one of the Tour mother and I are very disappointed in you' talks. I hear he used to change his apprentices into frogs and newts. It would be an improvement over listening to my folks complain."

"Huh. I can triple that misfortune" challenged Anton. "My master claims to have studied under Elminster him- self. Everything is "Elminster this' and "Elminster that' and 'When I was your age and worked for Elminster.' I don't think he's been farther west than the Rat Hills, but don't let him hear me say that. He would turn me into a frog."

Gerald shook his head. "I beat your ill curses fourfold. I serve the great and powerful Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun, who's just plain crazy. He's been involved in so many plots, he's stone-cold paranoid, and borderline violent to boot. If he thinks you're a danger to Waterdeep in any way, shape, or form, poof!" The blond youth grabbed his forehead with his hand, fingers splayed. "He throws a feeblemind spell on you and burns out your brain cells."

Anton put in, "Ah, but at least you have Laeral, Khel-ben's prize student, hanging around. I hear she's most easy on the eyes."

Gerald sniffed. "You think she'll give an apprentice the time of day? No, she worships the ground Blackstaff levitates over." He took a pull on his mug for effect and, realizing it was empty, signaled for another round.

"I bet he doesn't tell your parents on you," said Jehan. "And you don't have to live up to your family name. Just once I'd like to have old Maskar treat me like a rational, thinking being instead of his nephew's youngest whelp.

Maskar thinks everyone else in this city is a lower form of life, especially his students."

Gerald nodded. "And rival mages are barely worth their notice. Khelben calls your master 'the Old Relic.'"

Jehan sniffed in turn. "And yours reminds me of a skunk, what with that white stripe in his beard. I've heard my master call him 'the Old Spider.'"

The blond youth flashed a sly, toothy grin, his first of the evening. "Everyone calls him that, and he likes it that way, I think. Blackstaff and the other big-name wizards revel in the illusion of their power and wear it like a fur-trimmed cloak. Threatening the help is part of the deal. One of the perks, I suppose."

"It wouldn't be such a problem," said Anton, "if they were at least listening to new ideas."

"Don't get me started on that," said Jehan, getting starting on precisely that. The subject was a favorite of the young mage, particularly since it showed the shortcomings of the elder wizards. "They're paranoid enough about their powers getting into the hands of inexperienced pups like us. New magic is beyond their aged brains, and it scares them."

"New magic?" asked Gerald.

"You've heard about Maztica, right? The land across the Shining Sea?" said Jehan. Gerald nodded. "They have a completely different flavor of magic out there, based on feathers and fangs. These Mazticans use it to move water through pipes, like a well-pump. Think about what such interior plumbing would do for Waterdeep. I tried to ask old Maskar about it and got a lecture about learning the basics first before getting involved in 'speculative' spell-casting.

Speculative! There's another culture that can transform our world, and he's turning his back on it."

"Aye, and you're seeing more wood-block printing around," said Anton. "But we're still writing spells out longhand."